The Case of the One-Eyed Killer Stud Horse - John R. Erickson Hank the Cowdog

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one made me suspicious, so I opened one eye. Drover appeared to be 100% asleep, yet he continued to transmit messages in a code I had never run across before. I listened.

      “If you take the dog out of doggerel, the motor won’t start without peanut butter.”

      Ah ha! A certain pattern began to emerge. I opened both eyes, cranked myself up to a sitting position, and listened more carefully. What I had originally taken to be the incoherent ramblings of Drover’s so-called mind were showing signs of being something else—perhaps coded messages from some magic source?

      How else could you explain Drover’s use of a big word like “doggerel?” Or his reference to zebras and leopards and auto mechanics? I knew for a fact that Drover had never seen a zebra or a leopard, and I had reason to suspect that he didn’t know peanuts about starting motors.

      Your ordinary dog would have dismissed it all as nonsense and gone back to sleep, but as you might have already surmised, I decided to probe this thing a little deeper. I moved closer and listened. He spoke again.

      “When the sun rises in the morning in the east, the biscuits rise in the oven in the yeast.”

      Hmm, yes. This message not only rhymed, but it also hinted at some deep, profoundical meaning. This transmission had to be originating from some mysterious source outside of Drover.

      I decided to draw him out with a clever line of questions. It was risky. I mean, the sound of my voice might very well wake him up and spoil everything, but that was a risk I had to take.

      What we had here was The Case of the Coded Transmission, and at last the clues were beginning to fall into place. Your ordinary dogs, your poodles and your cheewahwahs and your cocker spaniels, would miss all of the important stuff. I mean, it would go right over their heads like a duck out of water.

      So there I was, sifting clues and finding patterns and preparing clever questions that would draw even more startling revelations from the mind of my sleeping assistant. As I said, it was a risky procedure but I had to give it a try.

      “All right, Drover. You hear my voice, is that correct?”

      “Mumbo jumbo.”

      “Does that mean ‘yes’ in your secret code?”

      “Jumbo mumbo.”

      “Are you trying to reverse the code on me now?”

      “Mumbo hocus pocus.”

      “What happened to jumbo?”

      “Jumbo hocus pocus.”

      “Thought you could fool me, didn’t you? You should have known better. As I’ve often said, Drover, it isn’t the size of the dog in the fight that matters. It’s the size of the fog in the dog.”

      “Foggy doggy mumbo jumbo.”

      “Exactly. I’ve locked into your code now. You can hear my voice, Drover, and you will do exactly as I say. You will answer my questions . . . ”

      “Gargle murgle guttersnipe.”

      “. . . but not until I ask them. Stand by for the first question. Ready? Mark! Here is the first question: Give me the full name of the mysterious source of these messages.”

      “Mumble grumble mutter.”

      “You’re muttering, Drover, I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

      “Mumble grumble rumble.”

      “That’s better. Is that the full name of the mysterious source of these messages?”

      “Murgle gurgle snore zzzzzzzz.”

      “Hmmm. Obviously he’s not from around here. That’s a foreign name if I ever heard one. Any name with that many Z’s in it is bound to be foreign.”

      “Chicken feather jelly.”

      “What? Repeat that message and concentrate on your diction.”

      “Dictionary jelly murgle snore.”

      “That’s better. All right, Drover, this brings us to our last and most important question, to the darkness behind the veil, so to speak. What is the evil purpose behind these coded messages sent to you from the mysterious foreign source?”

      I held my breath and waited. Suddenly, the screen door slammed up at the house. Drover leaped to his feet. His eyes popped open, revealing . . .

      Very little, actually. His ears were crooked, his eyes were crossed. He staggered two steps to the left and two steps to the right.

      “Scraps!” he said in a squeaky voice.

      “What? Is that the evil purpose of all these messages?”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Answer the question.”

      “Sally May just came out of the house. I bet she’s got some scraps from breakfast.”

      “Huh?” At last it all fit together. “You’re exactly right, Drover. And speaking of evil purposes, un­less we do some fancy stepping, the cat will beat us to the scraps. Come on, Drover, to the yard gate!”

      And so it was that, having solved The Case of the Coded Transmission, we turned to more serious business—delivering Pete the Barncat his first defeat of the day.

      Chapter Two: Stricken with Sneezaroma Because She Whacked Me on the Nose with a Wooden Spoon

      We went streaking up the hill, with me in the lead and Drover bringing up the rear. When we got to the yard gate, I glanced around and saw that we had succeeded in our first objective.

      Sally May and Loper were there talking, but Pete was nowhere in sight. Ha ha, ho ho! In her right hand, Sally May held a plate, in her left a wooden spoon.

      I turned to my assistant and gave him a worldly smile. “This is going to be a piece of cake, Drover.”

      “Oh boy! Usually it’s burned toast and a busted egg.”

      “What?”

      “I said, usually it’s burned toast . . .”

      “I heard that, Drover, but it shows that you misunderstood what I said.”

      “Oh.”

      “‘Piece of cake’ is an expression, a figure of speech. It means, ‘This is going to be easy.’”

      “Oh. Well, that’s easy enough.”

      “Exactly. You see, Drover, sometimes our words have subtle meanings that go beyond the actual words. That’s the beauty of language, its many shades of meaning.”

      “Yeah, and on a hot day that shade sure comes in handy.”

      “Exactly. So there you are, son, a little lesson in the endless variety of language.”

      “It’s pretty good, all right. Sure hope it’s chocolate.”

      “What?”

      “I’ve never had chocolate cake in the morning.”

      For a moment I considered giving the runt a tongue lashing, but just then Loper spoke up.

      “Hon, I’m going over to check that fence be­tween us and Billy’s west pasture. His stud horse got through the fence yesterday and I found him in the home pasture. I don’t want that crazy thing coming up

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